lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?
by lily22
Summary: The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari’s life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom. [complete]
1. Prologue

**Title: **lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary: **The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Warnings:** None, except that it's really weird.

**Prologue**

Esme Weatherwax dropped slightly yellowing leaves into her cauldron. In one hand, she held a rapidly shrinking and quite elderly head of cabbage. She used the other to peel the leaves off and drop them, one by one, into what was to be soup, but was, at present, water nearing its boiling point. She did this with the distracted air of one who has made countless cabbage soups in the past, and has a general idea of how things go while making cabbage soup. In fact, she even had the swirl of the water perfectly ascertained, so that the amount of time she took to rip off another leaf of lettuce was the exact same amount of time needed for the soup to rotate a carefully judged number of degrees. This way, the leaves fell evenly over the surface of the lightly ebullient water, instead of all falling one on top of the other so by the time the soup was done, some leaves were still raw and some had completely disintegrated.

Because of this, she wasn't paying too much attention; cabbage soup making didn't require much attention when you've been doing it for most of your life, especially if you'd lived as long as Esme had.

Because she wasn't paying much attention, she was quite surprised when there was a gurgling sound, and then the sound of someone trying to suck up a few drops of liquid and getting instead a strawful of air. Esme looked down to find that the cauldron draining, as if someone had pulled the plug, though of course there was no plug. It was a cauldron. You don't put a plug in a cauldron.

This was a Sign, Esme had no doubt. One of those occult symbols that the common person took one look at and said, "I should take this problem to the Witches, I should." Only usually, this meant that they came to her, Esme. Well, perhaps that meant that she would have to come to herself as well.

"So, Esme," she asked herself conversationally, "what does this mean?"

When she looked down again, she found that all the water had gone, leaving a shriveled heap of cabbage at the very bottom of the cauldron. Sighing, she put out the fire beneath the cauldron, and reached in to take the cabbage out…

…oh.

The cabbage was parted into two lumps and shaped suspiciously like a wahooni with a clean cut right through the middle.

"Trouble in Ankh-Morpork?" she asked herself wryly. It was a joke, albeit not one that most people would find too funny. (Esme _did_ joke. It was just that no one else seemed to appreciate or even notice her sense of humor.) Then again, if she was joking about it, that probably meant something. In order to joke about it, you have to at least believe in it a little…

Sighing, she reached for her crystal ball.

****

Meanwhile, in a city monikered "The Big Wahooni," the Patrician disappeared. However, as he did most things, he did this quietly, so there wasn't even an uproar until morning.

**To be continued...**


	2. August 25

**Title: **lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary: **The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Warnings:** None, except that it's really weird.

**Chapter 1: **August 25: Clear skies, highs in the mid-80s

Max Rodney was retiring. This did not come off as much of a surprise to anyone, since Rodney looked like he was roughly 300 years old. In actuality, he was only 87; most of those years had been spent as weatherman for News19. He was pretty hard of hearing, and standing in front of the camera for 10 minutes to give his report was killer on his back. It had gotten so bad, in fact, that they'd had to hire a separate person to present the reports, a pretty young thing with lots of golden curls and a set of hazel eyes that eye drops advertisers would've killed to have in their ads. Robert (or Rupert, as Max insisted on calling him, due to a general stubbornness and lack of good hearing. Oh well, thought Robert resignedly, it's only off by two letters anyway) met with Max twice a day so Max could try to explain his forecasts.

To give credit where credit was due, Max wasn't senile, by any means. His predictions were generally pretty accurate, which is really all you can hope for when dealing with something as fickle as the weather. Some people might even have gone so far as to say that Max was an excellent meteorologist, though if he was, it was probably more out of habit than anything else.

Even so, after a while, it had become too much. If Robert had a question about the report, usually it never got answered, or even heard. Finally people had taken to migrating out of the room when Max and Robert were meeting, so they could converse about the weather at the top of their lungs in peace. (It rarely merited the term "converse." It wasn't that the conversation was one-sided, it was just that Max always seemed to be in the wrong conversation, and poor Robert always had to keep changing subjects just so it would sound like they were two people talking to each other and not two people talking who happened to be in the same room.) That was why it was almost a relief when Max handed in his resignation that morning. It wasn't until Max had caned his way out that pandemonium struck: they didn't have anyone to replace the guy!

Now, Robert had a very basic idea of how meteorology worked. However, in order to be a successful meteorologist, you had to not only know how the weather was supposed to work, you had to know how prone the weather was to turning around and going ahaha fooled you, and you had to be able to predict that, too. Robert had majored in graphics and animation. He could barely read a weather map, much less draw from it an idea of the weather tomorrow.

So News19 was faced with being meteorologist-less, with a weather report upcoming at exactly 6:15. The newspaper classifieds took too long—they'd never get a weather report in time if their article didn't run until three business days later.

Sylvia, who was the employee personnel manager of News19, which meant pretty much that she hired and fired people, was practically in tears when she and Robert sat behind a table in their makeshift interviews room. The receptionist had been instructed to make the applicant fill out a few papers before sending him or her in, assuming that there were any applicants at all, and a large sign had been posted outside declaring that they were NOW HIRING a decent meteorologist.

Although Americans had a tendency to believe a bit too strongly in their own abilities, in this case, all most people knew about the weather involved cows, and, realizing that that probably wasn't enough, nobody joined Sylvia and Robert at the table. Three o'clock came rolling around and skidded uncontrollably past them. Four followed to make sure it was alright, and Five was dragged kicking and screaming after.

By five thirty Robert was frantically trying to compass a weather map the way he had seen Max do it, although he didn't know what, exactly, the circles were supposed to show, and his fingers were shaking slightly. Small flecks of pencil appeared as the compass shuddered up and down with him.

A thin hand reached past his and took the compass from him. Looking up, Robert found the hand was attached to a tiny sliver of wrist, which in turn was attached to the sleeve of a large black jacket which had so many folds and creases that it was impossible to tell how many pockets it had or what kind of body it was concealing, though something about it suggested thin, almost anorexic. The jacket was attached to, variously, another hand, a pair of nondescript black pants, and a pale neck which was attached to, worst of all, a pale, unsmiling face.

Robert looked back down. The first hand had stretched the compass out as far as it would go and was now using the pencil part to draw briskly on the map. As the heavy, deliberate strokes took form, Robert found himself "oh"-ing in agreement. Of _course_ the high was moving that way. It was so obvious with that line there.

Robert and Sylvia exchanged looks. Robert's expression clearly said: We've got an expert. It was all Sylvia could do not to jump up and scream, "You're hired!" Instead, she made a surreptitious check of the time. It wouldn't have done to seem impatient, but they were in a hurry. When she looked up, however, the man's eyes were on her, looking frighteningly as if they knew _everything._

"Er," she said uncomfortably, not knowing that this was quite a popular reaction to his gaze. "Did you fill out an application?"

The man shook his head.

"Er, I'm sure you'll need—"

"Fifteen minutes, am I right?"

"Er, what?"

"You have fifteen minutes until the weather report needs to be broadcasted, yes?"

"Er, yes," she said. Well, at least the guy had done his homework. Whether or not that was a good thing was yet to be determined. She had just read a book called The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker. It had left her a bit paranoid, and one of the things it had left her paranoid about was hiring some guy who wasn't a good worker, whom she'd have to fire eventually, who when then return and, in a rage, shoot everyone in the building. Doing background research, Sylvia thought, thinking back to the book. One of the signs of someone who wouldn't be willing to let go if circumstances called for it.

"Have you seen the applications?" the man asked. "Eleven pages long. It probably wouldn't leave me enough time to work out tonight's report, and _then_ what would you do?"

Sylvia and Robert consulted with their gazes. Hire him, both tried to stare into each other, there's no choice!

"Well, we'll still need some information about you before we could make this critical choice, like… what's your name? Educational background?"

"Havelock Vetinari," the man said. His raised eyebrow dared them to comment or, heavens forbid, get it wrong. "And I… haven't received a conventional education."

"You didn't go to school?" Sylvia asked bluntly. Robert, although what the company thought of affectionately as a good kid, was just that—a good kid. He wasn't particularly sharp or wise about the ways of the world. Sylvia didn't trust him to ask the right sort of questions, but then again, she didn't trust herself to either, not at the moment, not in the presence of Havelock Vetinari.

"Not as such," Vetinari said. "But as long as I can do the job right, I'm afraid I completely fail to see how it matters."

"We don't _know_ you know what you're doing though."

Vetinari turned the force of his gaze to Robert. "How about you, Mr. Wilson? Do you think I know what I'm doing?"

"Er," Robert said. He looked up from where he was staring at the map with something resembling awe in his countenance. Although he had been reporting the weather for a few months now, he had never actually gotten how Max made his predictions. With two careful pencil marks, however, the map was suddenly incredibly clear…

"Er, how do you know my name?" he asked.

Wordlessly, Vetinari pointed to his breast, and for a long, puzzled moment, Robert thought Vetinari was pointing to his heart. Vague, half-formed explanations (many involving a swell of cheesy music at exactly the right moment) chased each other through his head, each more deformed than the last. Then he looked down at his own chest and realized that he was wearing a nametag—Robert Wilson, assistant meteorologist.

"Oh. Yes, er. Yeah, you know what you're doing, I think. It's very…" he motioned vaguely to the map, "very clear."

"Well done. Am I hired?"

"Do you have a history of criminal activity?" Sylvia interjected, as her panicked mind jumped up and down, went running about in circles, and set off the sprinklers.

"No," Vetinari said simply.

"Er, do you have references?"

"I'm new here. I don't know anyone."

"If you had a phone number," she tried desperately. Vetinari did not seem to recognize this as a complete statement, and continued to watch her blankly. "Er, that would be a reference."

"Any phone number?" he deadpanned.

"Er, no. Someone you know. Or, who knows you, I mean."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible. I could make up some numbers for you, if you like," he added helpfully.

Sylvia eyed him nervously. No reference? He could be _any_ sort of person, and she wouldn't know. He could've been prone to violence, he could've been an ex-convict, he could've—

"We've only got five minutes," Robert said anxiously, and although Sylvia couldn't remember agreeing, that seemed to settle it. Vetinari spent three very busy moments explaining the weather for the night, before Robert dashed off to make his report. Sylvia edged around the table to take the spot Robert had just vacated, and leaned over to scrutinize the map the two men had been poring over. When she looked up, Vetinari was already gone, and without her notice. She walked over to the door, and was not at all surprised to find that it squeaked noisily no matter how carefully she tried to open it. Then she remembered that she'd forgotten to ask for Vetinari's contact information.

"Great," she muttered to herself, a hint of hopefulness in her voice. "He probably won't even show up tomorrow morning." They had arranged for Vetinari to come in early, perhaps 5-ish, to clean out Rodney's desk (Vetinari's suggestion, which increased her respect for him a bit), but that didn't mean he would actually come. "Oh well, guess we'll need to hire someone else."

Vetinari, meanwhile, wandered down the street, a single, unobtrusive figure among the masses of single, unobtrusive figures. He paused in front of every storefront he came across, inspecting each with care. When he reached the library, he entered and looked around with astonishment. After five minutes in which he appeared to familiarize himself with his surroundings, he found and read a book about phones from cover to cover. Then he picked out, seemingly at random, books about variously, televisions, weather maps, general psychology, the Mongol invasions, and present day politics. He brought the stack to a table by the window, where he meticulously went through them like a pioneer in an entirely new world.

**To be continued…**


	3. August 26

**Title: **lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary: **The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Warnings:** None, except that it's really weird.

**Chapter 2: **August 26: Windy, highs in the low 60s

Out of sheer nervousness, Robert arrived at the News19 studios at 4:30 in the morning. This was not in itself unusual—many various newscasters, editors, technical people, and custodians were there already, and would be until the work was done, although the end didn't seem imminent—but Robert didn't usually show up until 6:30 or later. Yawning and trying not to stumble over bare carpet in his exhaustion, he made his way over to his desk. Although he didn't need a cubicle, or even a desk, for that matter, he had gotten one by way of the fortune possessed of the truly good-looking, and he sat in this now. He groped in his drawer for a packet of M&Ms and his hand had just come in contact with what felt like the edge of a wrapper when Sylvia's head poked around the edge of the doorway. "Come out into the hall," she said. "I'm making an announcement."

Robert knew which announcement this was. Sylvia had made it yesterday night, too. All the same, he closed the drawer again and obediently went out into the hallway.

"Guys," Sylvia was saying, from the vantage point of a cushy, swiveling chair. This was not exactly the right type of chair to stand on when you're making a speech, because the cushions make your footing insecure, and the swiveling means that if you don't hang on to a wall, half way through your speech you'll find that you're facing away from the people you're addressing. She was making do, however, because otherwise she'd have been about half a head shorter than everyone else except Robert. "Guys," she repeated. "I've just hired a new weatherman."

There were cheers, the sort of silly, overenthusiastic ones that come of staying up for 30 hours straight on nothing but coffee and Subways sandwiches.

"Unfortunately," she continued on, voice firmly plowing through the laughter, "circumstances were a bit desperate. The reason we hired him was because he was our only candidate. Because of this, even though he refused to provide us with his background, we had no choice but to hire him. This means that we have no idea who this is, or what kind of a person he might be! He had no references, and didn't even fill out an application, insisting that he was pressed for time." Sylvia was reading from a script she'd drawn up last night, which is why her speech was so formal and why her co-workers had to take time to decipher every statement before they could properly respond. "We don't know if he's dangerous, but it's _best not to take chances_." She'd even managed to read the italics out loud. Everyone listening had gone silent, a fact in which she took great pride. "Of course we'll run him through a metal detector when he gets here. Even so, be careful around him. Tell us if there are any problems. We want to know. Thank you," she finished quickly, and stepped down from the chair.

"What should I do with these?" an impassive voice asked from behind her. Sylvia spun around to find Vetinari standing behind her, holding a stack of papers with a brown garment of some sort folded neatly on top.

Okay, she admitted to herself. Maybe she hadn't been the reason everyone had gone quiet. _How long had Vetinari been there??_

Perhaps seeing her stunned expression and deducing from there that she wasn't about to respond, Vetinari continued, "You said Mr. Rodney wasn't coming back for his stuff, so I kept the things I thought might aid me in my work. But these I don't need." He held up a box of orange Tic-Tacs with his spare hand and used it to indicate the stack. "What should I do with them?"

Robert remembered the orange Tic-Tacs. Max had downed them like some sort of drug, a box per day, sometimes two, perhaps as a replacement for a previous and more harmful addiction. Robert had countered with his M&Ms and it had become a sort of joke among the studio. For Robert's birthday most of the people who worked around the same time of day he did had pitched in gotten him a plastic sculpture of a happy, yellow M&M. It had had a widely smiling face and two huge eyes. Robert had hidden it behind a few books and tried not to look at it while he was eating M&Ms, because eating the candies while the plastic thing was watching made him feel like a monster. It seemed a bit strange that Max wouldn't be eating his Tic-Tacs with him anymore. Maybe Vetinari would?

"What are you doing here?" Sylvia asked.

"I said around 5, didn't I? I got here at 4:20. I had assumed promptness was expected." Vetinari said.

"Oh, er, yes. Yes, very good." Did you go through a metal detector when you got here? she wanted to ask, but couldn't bring herself to.

"Er, bring them down to admissions, I guess," Sylvia suggested. "Someone'll sort through them later."

Vetinari left.

A few minutes ticked by in silence before someone finally worked up the courage to ask, "How come he knew where admissions was?"

When Vetinari returned, it was just nearing five in the morning. Wordlessly, he returned to Rodney's cubicle, now his cubicle, apparently deciding not to ask why everybody was still standing in the hall and staring at him. A few moments later, Robert followed him in.

It looked a lot better than it had the previous morning. The clutter that had obscured the desk was now completely gone, revealing that the desk was, in fact, a dark cherry finish, and that it did, indeed, have a computer on it. Max had declared that he wouldn't use any of "those newfangled contraptions," as stereotype dictated, and Robert had just assumed that he didn't have one in his cubicle. Without all the papers, though, Robert realized that what he'd originally just assumed to be a particularly high stack was actually a monitor. It was now aglow with red and blue lines, behind which the faint outline of the United States could be made out. The monitor flickered occasionally, and at first Robert thought that it was broken. After a while, he realized that it was a bit too regular to be a bug, and realized that it displayed a weather map, which refreshed itself every five seconds to show the latest developments. Robert hadn't even known that computers could be made to do that, much less how to use such information.

The large weather maps that Max was supplied with regularly were stacked neatly in a corner of the office, leaning against a wall. Yesterday night's map was hanging behind the desk and computer, still with Robert's shaky circles and Vetinari's two lines on them. The current weather map hung at the wall to Vetinari's right elbow, facing the doorway. The predicted map for that afternoon hung behind Vetinari. This was a much more efficient system than rustling through the papers every time they wanted to look something up, and Robert had the sneaking suspicion that the maps leaning against the wall were sorted in chronological order, as neat as the rest of the office.

Vetinari, at his desk, was writing rapidly. After a few moments, he set down his pen and handed the paper to Robert, who took it with hesitation and read. It was about all the weather they could expect to have that morning and afternoon, and was quite detailed. It even went on to say that thunderstorms were possible that evening or early the next morning, but that they would surely be over by noon the next day.

"Is everything clear?" Vetinari asked, looking at Robert expectantly.

"Yes, I think so," Robert said. He glanced at the clock, which told him that it was only 5:11. "That was fast," he tried.

Vetinari shrugged. "It took me some time to get organized. It'll be faster tonight."

"Oh. Er, good." Robert cast about for something to say. "Er, it looks good." Vetinari continued to stare at him blankly. "The cubicle, I mean. Er. I guess I'll see you tonight then. Er. Would you like an M&M?"

**To be continued…**


	4. August 27

**Title:** lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary:** The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Warnings:** None, except that it's really weird.

**Chapter 3:** August 27: Overcast with a chance of thunderstorms

"I just want to make sure I understand this clearly. Do correct me if I'm wrong," said the voice of Vetinari from somewhere to Robert's left. Robert turned to face that direction, because he'd been taught it was polite to look at people while they were talking, not that it really mattered at the moment. "You have this… electricity. You use it for lighting, for communication, for tools like computers and loudspeakers. Electricity is so important, in fact, that you don't even put windows in most of the rooms, relying instead on electric lights. Am I getting this right so far?"

Robert hazarded a soft "uh huh" while Sylvia wondered about the pronoun choice.

"This precious, vital energy source you channel through wires, which you hang 25 feet in the air on unprotected and unsupported poles. In fact, the only thing stopping them from falling over is some dirt and each other, which means that, should they fall over—and I am aware that this is a rare occurrence, probably only every time the wind blows—they drag their neighbors down with them."

There was a brief and guilty silence. Vetinari's tone of voice was mild and not at all sardonic, but the words themselves rang with sarcasm.

"Oh, another thing," Vetinari's voice continued. "During a thunderstorm, it is the job of a meteorologist to provide viewers with the information they need. To do this, we need divers equipment, cameras and things, which operate on electricity. So, and I ask this purely in a spirit of inquiry, you understand, how are we going to accomplish this with the power out and both meteorologists suspended in a metal box a few stories off the ground?"

There was another embarrassed silence.

"We have a back-up generator," Robert's voice offered.

"Do we? Capital. Shall we go turn it on?"

"It, er, turns on by itself."

"What, automatically? Without outside persuasion?"

"Uh huh."

"So… that means that it's on right now, does it?"

"Er." Robert glanced around at the dark interior of the elevator and felt that his generator refute had left something to be desired. "People are probably working on it right now," he tried.

There was silence from Vetinari's corner. When he spoke again, his voice was slightly distracted and came from above their heads. Robert guessed that he'd stood up. "Oh? Are they looking for an on switch, then?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Splendid. I'm sure that, in the dark, with the freezing rain and howling winds, they shall accomplish this in no time."

There was the sound of metal scraping against metal, and then a long, drawn-out sound, like two forces straining against each other.

"Mr. Vetinari?" Sylvia asked. "What are you doing?"

"Tell me," Vetinari responded, "is there any way to get off this elevator without electricity?"

"Down," replied Robert darkly, thinking of the three-story drop below them.

"Indeed? Is there a hatch on the floor?"

"Er, no. I was talking about, you know, the fall."

"Indeed? So, what were you thinking of falling _through_?"

"Um. I was just… I mean, it was a joke."

"Ah," said the voice of Vetinari, as if suddenly edified. The straining sound grew louder, before there was a sudden rush of wind and the hissing sound of elevator doors retracting.

Robert made a startled noise. "Did you get the door open?"

There was no response. A few moments later, Vetinari's presence, felt in the form of an obstruction in the slight breeze, was gone.

"Mr. Vetinari!" Sylvia screamed.

"Yes?" said the voice of Vetinari, now a bit higher than before.

"Are you—? I thought you fell!"

"I assure you; this is not the case." The voice steadily rose.

"What are you doing?"

"Climbing up the wall," said the voice of Vetinari, quite calmly.

"_How_?"

"I came prepared," was the response.

A few minutes passed, dragging their feet, and then there was another scraping sound. With the _ding_ of an elevator reaching its floor, there was again the sound of elevator doors sliding open. Light fell on them, slightly strained from its trip down.

"It appears that the power is back on," said the voice of Vetinari.

"Yeah," said another voice. "We're running on generator power until they fix the cables."

"Yet the elevators aren't working?"

"Yeah, we're trying to save power, so we turned them off. There's a sign on the doors, see?"

"And you are aware that there are two people trapped in that elevator?"

"Oh my god, are you serious?"

"Quite."

8.8.8.8

By the time a ladder had been found and everybody got out on solid ground, cameramen had been assembled. Robert was in front of the cameras for several consecutive hours, while Sylvia gave Robert his prompts as soon as Vetinari was done writing them. After a while, Robert gave up paraphrasing it, and just read the words straight off the sheet. Quite a few people were mildly amused by, "Happily, conditions should am… amela… amelio… hang on a moment, Sylvia? Oh, uh, conditions should clear up by noon, and we'll see clear skies by late afternoon," because when the wind and rain are combining forces to rip the trees out of your yard, just about everything is amusing.

Finally, when the storms stopped growling outside and Robert and Vetinari were declared done for the day, or at least, until the 6:15 report that evening, Sylvia sat at her desk and buried her face in her hands.

Vetinari… the man had wrenched the elevator door open. How? It was possible he'd had something with him, a large, flat piece of metal, maybe, but if he had things like that with him, what was to say he didn't have knives? And then he'd crawled up the walls, using something else he'd "come prepared" with, and then he'd levered the other door open too, while hanging from the wall.

No matter how she looked at the situation, Vetinari seemed dangerous.

Sylvia's eyes lit upon her bookshelf, where The Gift of Fear and Fear Less stared back at her. She pulled Gift down and flipped to the appendix. The author of both books, Gavin de Becker, was a predictor of violence. He'd worked successfully with presidents. Surely it wouldn't be too hard for him to figure Vetinari out?

As she dialed the phone number, she wondered what Vetinari was doing at that moment. Probably something creepy, like spying on them all through a window, she thought, and shuddered.

8.8.8.8

Havelock Vetinari was in fact standing in a garden. The garden was in front of a pale green house on Demilune Drive; house and garden were owned by Mr. and Mrs. Fiorentini, from whom he was renting a room. He had been standing there for about half an hour, watching the Fiorentinis garden, before Mr. Fiorentini had turned around and spotted him. This had caused him to drop his shears for some odd reason, as if perhaps Vetinari's presence was unsettling, or just the fact that he'd stood there for so long without being noticed. At Vetinari's query, Mr. Fiorentini had explained that he was pruning the shrubberies to help them grow better, and not because he disliked them, and now was trying to explain why his wife was picking spiny thistle plants out of the ground.

"Well, they're weeds, see? We want to be rid of them."

"Why?"

"Er. Because they're ugly, and they're taking up room and, and nutrients and whatever."

"Which your flowers would otherwise have gotten."

"Yeah. Exactly."

"So you're pulling their leaves off."

"Yeah?"

"Might I point out the parallel between pulling off and clipping off leaves?"

"What?"

Vetinari sighed. "Aren't you basically pruning your weeds, Mr. Fiorentini?"

"Er." Mr. Fiorentini looked flustered. By this point, Mrs. Fiorentini had looked up as well. Her weeder's metallic edges glinted dangerously in the sunlight, and a leaf fell from its pronged end.

"Well," she said, laughing in the highly embarrassed way of one caught doing something incredibly stupid. "At least for now, you can't see the weeds, right? And it's not like there's anything else I can do…"

Vetinari's stare went on for a little longer than necessary. Then, wordlessly, he crouched down in front of the thistle. His back covered what he was doing, but when he stood again, he was holding the weed didactically by its root. "If you pull it out the root, the weed can hardly grow back again," he explained, picked up the plastic bag by Mrs. Fiorentini, and moved on to the next weed.

Within half an hour, Vetinari had, without gloves or a weeder, removed all the weeds from the garden, to the Fiorentinis' astonishment. Finally, he dropped the plastic bag, carefully knotted, back on their lawn, and looked at the two.

"You're bleeding!" Mrs. Fiorentini yelped, perhaps unwilling to discuss what Vetinari had just done. Vetinari looked down at his fingers as if he had never seen them before. They were, indeed, bleeding slightly where thistle after thistle had pricked.

"I offered you gloves," Mrs. Fiorentini said, after a pause, as if he was accusing her.

"Madam," he said as he walked back to the house, "I hardly imagine that gloves would've helped. The spines would just have poked _through_. Besides, your gloves are knitted, which pretty much means that there are small holes in them." He stopped by the water faucet at the outside of the house, and carefully rinsed his fingers under it. Then he went in.

It is interesting to note that not a single thistle ever grew again in the Fiorentini's garden. Word gets around.


	5. August 28

**Title:** lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary:** The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Warnings:** None, except that it's really weird.

**Chapter 4: **August 28: Partly cloudy, highs in the upper 70s

The doorbell sounded clear and bright within 12 Demilune Drive, and it was but a moment before the door was opened. It was an elderly woman who answered the door— well preserved and quite pretty, but obviously elderly all the same—and Gavin greeted her politely.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said. "My name is Gavin de Becker, of Gavin de Becker and Associates. Have you heard of my company?"

"Uh, no, actually."

"That's fine. My company advises clients on the assessment and management of situations that might escalate to violence. I'm here about a man named Havelock Vetinari. Is he renting a room from you?"

"Yes he is," she said, looking slightly worried. "Um, come in. I'm Marisa. Marisa Fiorentini. And they are…?"

"Robert Wilson," Robert volunteered. "I work with Mr. Vetinari. And this is Sylvia. She hired him."

"Oh really? What does he do? He never told me."

"He's a meteorologist," Sylvia said, exchanging worried glances with Robert.

"Really? And to think I never knew… Please, sit. Anybody want something to drink?"

The inside of the Fiorentinis' house was capacious and cheerful. Sylvia sat at the table in the kitchen, smoothing out the flower-print tablecloth. The two men followed suit. Marisa interrupted her bustle only to ask her husband to come in, and then she went back to pouring drinks and getting ice cubes out of their container.

"So, how did Mr. Vetinari come to rent a room from you, um, Andy, is it?" Gavin asked.

"Well, it's kind of weird," Mr. Fiorentini said. "Marisa and I, we were driving along one night, and he just kind of popped out of nowhere on the side of the road. Of course Marisa's always inviting strays into the house, we had another one only last month, so we pulled over. He seemed a bit confused, and we just brought him home. Oh, and Thursday he offered to pay us for the room."

"That was his first day of work," Sylvia said. "We gave him the advance he asked for. Five day's work. Well, ten hours, anyway. He's only expected to work two hours a day. Though yesterday he worked for eight hours, so I guess we're even."

"How much did he pay you?" Gavin asked.

"200 dollars," said Andy. "He said he wasn't intending to stay too long."

"200 dollars?" echoed Sylvia. "That's what we paid him."

"Um, good," said Andy.

"I mean, that's _all_ we paid him. What's he spending on clothing? Food?"

Andy looked confused. "He's not buying food?"

Marisa came to the table with a tray of cookies. "He's not buying food? No wonder he's so thin!"

"I've never seen him eat anything," said Robert. "Not even an M&M."

"We gave him some of my old clothes, though," said Andy. "You should've seen what he had on when he got here…"

"But what's he eating?" said Marisa.

"What _was_ he wearing when he got here?" asked Gavin.

"A dress," said Andy, grinning.

"A dress? Like, with frills and stuff?" said Robert.

"Don't tease," said Marisa reprovingly. "They were robes. Like for priests and stuff."

"He's a priest?" said Robert.

"What did he say when you met?" Gavin asked.

"Um. He said hello, and could we tell him where he was."

"And you said…?"

"And we said New Columbia. And he asked what time it was. And we told him. Eight thirty, was it?"

"I think so," said Marisa. "Then we asked if he was lost."

"And he said yes, he thought so, and Marisa offered to let him stay at our house."

"Yeah, so we brought him home."

"He was acting really funny though. He kept staring out the windows, like he wasn't used to trees or something."

"What?" said Gavin. "Trees?"

"Well, yeah. There were trees on the side of the road."

"He wasn't used to them?"

"It seemed like it. He was staring at something through the window."

"How odd," said Gavin. "How has he behaved at your house?"

"He's been really quiet," said Marisa. "We hardly ever see him."

"Does he seem dangerous to you? In any way?"

"Yeah… Well, no. I mean, it's not like he's done anything."

"You said Yes first, Mrs. Fiorentini. That's very important."

"Please, call me Marisa."

"Okay, Marisa. Why did you say Yes first?"

"Well, you know. He sort of… sneaks up on you, and you don't even know he's there until he tells you. Gives me a heart attack sometimes."

"Has he ever threatened you in any way?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

"How about you, Mr. Fiorentini? Has he ever threatened you?"

"No."

"Okay," said Gavin, nodding. He closed his notebook. It was a sign of just how good of a note-taker he was that until this point, none of the others at the table had even noticed he'd been taking notes at all. "Is Mr. Vetinari home?"

"Actually, I don't know," said Marisa. "It's not like he ever makes a sound, the door's always closed, and when he leaves or comes back, I never hear him. We could check, I guess," she added doubtfully.

"That would be great," said Gavin, standing.

Marisa led them up the stairs and all the way down the hall, where she knocked on the last door. It opened on silent hinges, where all the other doors in the house had creaked cheerfully when they swung. The room beyond was mostly dark. In the gloom was Havelock Vetinari, wearing what appeared to be a dark T-shirt and pants. The color was indistinguishable, but after seeing what Vetinari had been wearing the past three days, Robert and Sylvia could make a pretty good guess.

They were right, of course—Vetinari turned on a small, floral lamp, which didn't illuminate much but, for a moment, revealed the black fabric of his shirt. Then he moved away from the light, back towards the door.

"Havelock," said Marisa, which made all the others gape. "You have some visitors."

"Actually," said Gavin, "could I speak with him alone?"

The others agreed after some discussion, and Gavin went in. The others stared at the shut door with some nervousness. Vetinari hadn't said a word.

Inside the room, Vetinari nodded at Gavin in greeting. "Mr. de Becker," he said.

"Have we met?" asked Gavin.

"No, but I've read your book and recognized you from your picture in the back."

"Ah. Which one?"

"The Gift of Fear. It raises quite interesting points."

"Do you agree with them?"

"…Some," said Vetinari noncommittally. "Please have a seat."

Gavin sat on a chair. He noticed it was yellow and had flowers all over it.

"I apologize for the dark, but I'm afraid I don't get much light in the morning. It's quite bright in the late afternoon, though." Vetinari sat on the bed. The covers had roses on them.

"That's okay. Do you mind if I open the curtains anyway?"

"Go ahead," said Vetinari. The lamp clicked off.

Gavin stood and brushed aside the curtain, which was—surprise, surprise—heavily bedecked with flowers. Feeble light dribbled into the room. Satisfied, Gavin sat back down and looked around the now partially illuminated room. There were no papers on the small desk, no belongings on the floor. It looked like a classic guest room, impersonal despite all of the host's best efforts to spruce it up. It was a universal law that a guest room always looked forbidding, no matter how many flowers are in the furniture, because a room without a permanent owner had no personality. Vetinari hadn't even bothered trying to personalize it, which meant that the room not only looked like a guest room, it looked like a guest room that no one ever lived in. There wasn't even a sock on the chair, even though there almost always is one in a bachelor's room.

"Let me get straight to the point, Mr. Vetinari," said Gavin. "Your coworkers are worried about you."

"Really," said Vetinari.

"Oh yes. They feel you might've snuck weapons into the workplace. Have you?"

"Yes."

"Yes?" asked Gavin incredulously.

"Let's just say that I'm a bit paranoid," said Vetinari.

"But this is a crime!"

"Is it?" asked Vetinari.

"You can't take weapons into a public facility, Mr. Vetinari."

"Can't I?"

"No."

"And I could get arrested for this, could I?"

"Yes!"

"…Actually, I'm quite convinced that I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because no one's actually seen me do it."

"But you just admitted it."

"I notice you've forgotten to turn on your tape recorder," said Vetinari.

Gavin stared. Without taking his eyes off Vetinari, he reached down to the tape recorder, which he'd set surreptitiously on the carpet, and pressed the record button. The tape began rolling.

"Mr. Vetinari," he said slowly. "Have you snuck weapons past the metal detectors at News19 studios?"

"No," he said, flashing a quick, bright smile.

"I see," said Gavin. He stood up and began pacing. "Have you ever intentionally hurt someone?"

"Yes, of course."

Gavin stopped pacing to stare at Vetinari. "Yes?"

"Yes."

"You have physically hurt someone? In the last few decades, I mean. Childhood scuffles don't count. And also excluding sports, and excluding practice for some sort of martial arts or other fighting class," he said.

"Oh. In that case, no," said Vetinari.

Gavin nodded in a relieved manner. Though he knew Vetinari probably wouldn't tell him the complete truth, that had sounded genuine. "And of course you haven't killed anyone."

"Haven't I?"

"You have?"

"Yes."

"But you said you hadn't hurt anyone…"

"I didn't hurt them. I just killed them."

"But—"

"You can't feel pain when you're dead, can you?"

"But the killing itself—"

"I'm very careful about these things."

"But you—"

"Mr. de Becker," Vetinari sighed. "You're here wondering whether or not I pose a threat to those whom I work with. I'm telling you that I haven't killed anyone in, as you say, the last few decades. I'm not planning to kill anyone. You have only my word to go by. Whether or not that's enough is up to you."

"I also have my observations to go by."

"Believe me when I say that the only things you've observed are what I wanted you to. Good day."

Gavin de Becker went downstairs and informed Sylvia that, although he hadn't been able to identify whether or not Vetinari was a threat to the people at work, he felt that Vetinari would not react violently if fired, and better safe than sorry, right?

It was only after Gavin left that he realized he couldn't remember turning off the tape recorder. He pulled it out, rewound, and hit play. He and Vetinari conversed on the tape: "Mr. Vetinari, have you snuck weapons past the metal detectors at News19 studios?" Then, "No." Then, "I see." The rest of the tape was blank.


	6. August 29

**Title:** lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary:** The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Chapter 5:** August 29: Light showers, highs in the low 70s

Vetinari sat on the bed like a black flamingo looming out of a flower-strewn meadow. He was saying, "That's not a problem, Mrs. Fiorentini." He felt almost as if he was back in school, and Mrs. Fiorentini was a teacher offering well meaning but unsolicited advice. Or, in this case, comfort.

"But you're fired! If I'd known that was going to happen, I wouldn't have let the man in. And he seemed so nice, too…"

That was the problem, thought Vetinari. Mrs. Fiorentini thought everyone was "so nice." That was, however, how Vetinari had gotten a place to sleep at night.

"It's not a problem," he repeated. "I don't mind."

"How could you not mind? A job is one of the most important things a person can have," she said, firmly.

What could Vetinari say? When he'd unexpectedly wound up on a completely different planet, he'd made the best of the situation. At one point he'd even thought about staying permanently. The more advanced technology offered simple comforts, while the people remained essentially the same. It would've been simple to recreate here what he'd had back on the Disc, and maybe things would've gone well. At that exact instant, however, Vetinari just wanted Ankh-Morpork back.

"I'm planning to leave today," he said, carefully.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Fiorentini. "When?"

"Right now, actually," said Vetinari.

"Oh, well, you should take some food with you. And you should have your money back, I insist—"

"It would be valueless where I'm going," said Vetinari grimly. "And I'm afraid there's no exchange rate."

"Oh," said Mrs. Fiorentini, for the third time. Then, "It's been nagging at me all night, but… What _have_ you been eating?"

"Ah, yes, about that. I hope you don't mind, but I've been taking food from your kitchen."

"No you haven't," Mrs. Fiorentini insisted. "I would've noticed!"

Vetinari shrugged.

"What kind of food?"

"Bread," said Vetinari.

"_Bread?_"

"The sliced kind."

"The kind I keep on the counter? I think I would've noticed if you'd been taking some."

"Maybe," said Vetinari in a distinctly noncommittal way.

"How much bread?" she persisted.

Vetinari tilted his gaze up in silent calculation. "Four slices so far," he said finally.

"A day?" asked Mrs. Fiorentini. "That's hardly enough…"

"Total," said Vetinari.

"What?" she asked.

"I've taken four slices, total."

"But… but… You've been here six days!"

"Five, really."

"All you've eaten were four slices of bread?"

"And I've been taking water from your sink."

"Four slices of bread and tap water?"

"I hope you don't mind," said Vetinari evenly.

"That can't be enough! You have to come down and eat something, this instant!"

"Do I?" asked Vetinari. "Actually, I really must be going."

This stopped Mrs. Fiorentini on her tracks. "At least some cookies," she tried.

"I'm afraid not," said Vetinari.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Home."

"Is it far?"

"Unimaginably. Goodbye, Mrs. Fiorentini. Thank you for your hospitality."

Vetinari stepped outside into a mild breeze. He made his way down the street, around the corner, and followed the path until it widened into a busy highway. He went along the edge of the road, listening to the cars rush by him, thinking carefully. The conclusion he came up with didn't seem quite cogent without alcohol to help it along, but he felt it would have to do. It went something like this:

It was a well-known fact (well-known to some, anyway) that whenever there were two possible choices, the Trousers of Time opened up. Reality branched, and you went down one Leg. Another you went down the other Leg into an Alternate Dimension, where things were subtly and yet undeniably different because of that one choice.

It was also known, but to a more select group of people, that there were other worlds beside the Disc, and other universes besides the one in which the Disc resided. In fact, a better word might have been "Multiverse," because there were multiple universes. The others existed in, well, in an Alternate Dimension. The Earth was one of them. A whole bunch of people lived on the Earth, just as a whole bunch of people lived on the Disc, and they never realized there was a Disc at all, because in their Dimension, there wasn't one.

So Vetinari thought: what was the connection between the Alternate Dimensions in the Trousers of Time principle and the one in the Multiverse principle? What if there wasn't a difference? What if they were the _same thing?_ What if, In The Beginning, whoever had created the Disc had decided, "A disc of mud? On four elephants? On a turtle? What a stupid idea. Let's make a ball of dirt instead."

Of course, that hadn't happened, so we needn't worry about it, people said.

But it _could_ have. And the Trousers of Time didn't necessarily only apply to mortals. The Trousers opened up for the Creator; down one leg, there was the Disc, and down the other, there was the Earth.

And that, in fact, was it. The entirety of Vetinari's amazing conclusion. It needed some work, he admitted, such as, Why Had They Never Met Anyone From the Earth Who'd Traveled Down the Wrong Leg? Then again, as he thought about it, maybe they had. Where else could the theory of the Multiverse have come from, if not a firsthand eyewitness? And what was he, in fact?

So he had been thrown down the wrong Leg of the Trousers. All he had to do then was get back down the right Leg.

It _sounded_ simple.

Vetinari began walking, quickly, sharp eyes fixed on the cars at his side. Without warning, he stepped into the middle of the street and turned to look at the large truck bearing down upon him. It had a bumper sticker in its front window. It said, in small print, "If you can read this, you're too close to my truck."

Vetinari could read it. He wondered if he should move a bit further away.

The Trousers of Time opened up for him, sure enough, but if they were Trousers, they had been designed to be worn by several octopuses at the same time. As he sped down his Leg, many other Legs went by him. At any second, he could've jumped back to the safety of the grass beside the road, and in some Alternate Dimensions, he did. The multitude of Legs thickened like bramble, branching out at bewildering speeds. Vetinaris all over the place leapt to safety, ducked down, stepped to the side.

We will, however, follow the most interesting Leg, which comes to an abrupt end as if amputated off. The Vetinari at the end of it knew that it was time when he heard the screech of breaks and saw what seemed like a wall in front of him—the end of his Leg, and not a very dignified one either. He grabbed it, almost falling through before it somehow solidified under him, heaved himself up, and almost fell over into another Leg. They were all so tightly packed that he had difficulty maneuvering himself through them, but he did anyway, realizing with ridiculous good cheer that in fact what he was clinging so desperately to was the crotch of Time.

After a while, it got easier, crawling through Dimensions. All the Legs were lined up, kind of like a harmonica, and being able to crawl through the fabric between the Legs didn't seem strange if he thought of them like fog or water. He just had to make sure that his hand didn't move through what it was clinging to, which was pretty easy after running a city like Ankh-Morpork. He slipped, sometimes, slid down a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, but regained his balance before long.

And also before long, he came to a leg that felt so achingly familiar he nearly fell over from the shock. It was cold where all the others had been slightly warm, as if with body heat, and Vetinari felt this was a good sign. It meant that he wasn't inhabiting the leg when he should've been. That could be fixed.

And he let go.

Before we continue following this Leg, it must be said that no Vetinari anywhere got run over by that truck. Funny how that works.


	7. August 30

**Title:** lovely weather we're having, isn't it?

**Summary:** The age-old starter of non-conversation suddenly becomes a large part of Vetinari's life, as do talking boxes and brightly painted bits of metal that go vroom.

**Chapter 6:** August 30: Muddy, with a chance of fish

Rust, thought Vimes disgustedly as he chased another unlicensed thief—they were all unlicensed now, really—down the street. The man should've left what was well enough alone. Don't touch it if it's not broken. Vimes would've been somewhat amused to find that that was Vetinari's motto. There were lots of things Rust could've learned from Vetinari, in fact, and not dismantling the Thieves' Guild during his first day in office was one of them.

The air blurred in front of Vimes, and suddenly Vetinari was there. It had not been a good day. It wasn't getting any better. Vimes expressed this sentiment with a cry of "Bugger!" and tried to stop his legs even as he plowed into the man.

Vetinari reached behind him and grabbed a cart, using it to successfully catch his balance again. Unfortunately, pushing himself straight pushed Vimes over, and Vimes fell backwards. With a copper's reflexes, Vimes reached out and grabbed whatever he could—in this case, an arm. This stopped his fall for almost an entire second before Vetinari was pulled down as well. Fortunately, the cart that Vetinari was still holding onto stopped both of them and jerked them backwards. The final backwards jerk had, unfortunately, been more than the cart could handle, and it pitched forward to meet them. There was a loud crash, and then there was a pile of Vimes, Vetinari, and… fish. The cart had thankfully missed both of them, and was lying about a foot off, on its side, one wheel spinning madly.

Vetinari took a delicate sniff and immediately regretted it. "Ah," he said. "Ankhian Trout."

He was definitely back, although a less definite affirmation would've done just as nicely, thank you.

Few things can survive the waters of the Ankh River, but the Ankhian Trout is one of them. Not only is the Ankhian Trout the only fish to live in the Ankh, it is also the only fish that smells marginally better when it's dead. The first was, in fact, a live trout that had escaped from a nearby seafood restaurant and flopped its way down the muddy banks of the Ankh into its even muddier waters. It was a terrible thing, after so much trouble, to be met with something like the Ankh, but after a few adaptations, the Ankhian Trout now enjoys a new home, no predators, and all the old boots it can eat. Why there was a cartload of Ankhian Trout anywhere is still a mystery—you can't eat them; it's no fun fishing for them because when caught, they bite off your hands and scuttle back into the river; they look something like a clump of dead seaweed and thus aren't quite picturesque enough for aquariums; and you can't even use them as fertilizer because they turn the soil black and any plant that grows out of it invariably commits suicide.

"Ugh," said Vimes, pulling a fish off his head and looking at the black stain it'd left on his hand.

Though being in a pile of fish is a common and quite humorous situation, this is only true in books, usually written by someone who has never wondered what that slimy thing trying to wriggle into his ear was, and definitely not by someone who has found out.

Vetinari sat up and tried to brush the worst of the scales out of his hair. Vimes followed suit for a few minutes before he stopped, seemed to realize exactly who he was sitting next to, and threw a trout at him.

"Vetinari, you b—" He stopped, soberly checked himself, then continued on in absolute fury. "Where have you been! Ankh-Morpork's gone all to pieces without you!"

"Has it really?" asked Vetinari, standing and regarding the silvery flash of scales on his black jeans. It looked like the foreign article of clothing that shouldn't have existed in this Dimension was completely ruined. What a shame. He made a mental note to have it burned.

"Stop looking at your clothes! Where _were_ you? We all thought you were dead!"

"So sorry to stop the celebrations short," said Vetinari, "but I don't believe I am. What's been happening?"

"Rust's been happening," muttered Vimes angrily. "Somehow people actually wanted him as Patrician and now's he's broken apart the Thieves' Guild. And the Beggars! And the Seamstresses! He's tried to take down the Assassins' Guild but of course he couldn't. And now he's after the Alchemists! There's a mob down at the Palace!"

"My word," said Vetinari mildly. "You'd think he would just wait until they blew themselves up again."

"What have you been doing for the past three weeks that was more important than running the city?"

"Three weeks? My, how the time flies. I suppose I'd better be getting back then." Vetinari pursed his lips thoughtfully. "A mob, you say?"

"Yeah," said Vimes. "Mostly Beggars. And you know how they are when they get mad."

Vetinari nodded. "Very well. I'll need your men to help me through the mob and into the Palace. I want them assembled behind the mob in half an hour."

Vimes gaped. Away for three weeks and the instant he was back, he was bossing Vimes around? "And what are you going to do?" he asked.

"I need a change of clothes," said Vetinari. "I doubt they've cleared out my room yet."

"Your room in the Palace?" asked Vimes slowly.

"Of course," said Vetinari, already picking his way out of the pile.

"You're going into the Palace?" Vimes persisted.

"Yes," said Vetinari, finally reaching the cobbles.

"But why do you need my men to get you in if you can do it perfectly well by yourself?"

Vetinari shot him a pained look. "Please, Vimes," he said. "Of course I don't need them to get me in. I just need them to make my presence known. The bigger the fuss, the better. I was thinking we should give the de Worde man a tip, but I think he's probably already down there. Half an hour, remember."

Vimes stared after Vetinari as he walked away.

8.8.8.8

Half an hour and a good scrubbing later, Vimes waited with two dozen Watchmen. The crowd of people in front of them had mostly ignored their presence, instead bent on showing Rust just how wonderful some of his new ordinances really were.

"What are we waiting for?" asked Vetinari's voice softly.

Vimes was determined not to let his surprise show. "Er, you, sir," he said, having regained a reign on his temper and a general regard for his own health that he hadn't held while half-buried under a pile of fish.

Tacitly, Vetinari watched the people with an almost predatory stare. It took Vimes a while to realize that although it was hunger he saw in Vetinari's gaze, it wasn't the kind you saw in a tiger's eyes, unless it happened to be female and a mother.

To stop this disconcerting thought, Vimes licked his drying lips and spoke. "Look at them," he said, quietly. "They're on edge. You could just walk up to them and say 'boo' and they'd probably run away."

"Because I said boo?" inquired Vetinari.

"Because it was you saying boo," said Vimes. "I mean, we had a funeral service for you and everything. Nothing got buried, but they think you're dead and now they've got to deal with Rust as best they can."

"Really." Vetinari shot Vimes an odd look. Slowly, he made his way through the crowd; those whom he tapped on the shoulder turned around, took one good look at him, and moved aside with astonishing alacrity. By the time Vetinari had got to the Palace Gates, everyone had fallen silent and, indeed, taken a step backwards.

Vetinari grinned over their heads at Vimes, but to the crowd he was grinning _at them_, and showing teeth, too.

"Boo," Vetinari said softly.

8.8.8.8

Meanwhile, in an Alternate Dimension, a Vetinari who had jumped out of the way of the oncoming truck settled back into his seat with a sigh. He swiveled it around to look out the window. America wasn't really that bad, once he got used to it. Maybe in time he'd even grow as fond of it as he was of Ankh-Morpork.

In any case, he'd known it wouldn't be hard to get elected.

The view from the Oval Office left something to be desired, however. He would have that fixed immediately.

**End.**


End file.
